Liz Fielding - The Valentine Bride

‘You’re sure I can’t give you a lift?’ she asked, from the back of the cab.

‘No. I’m fine. I’ll give you a call about next week.’

She waited, waved as she drove off. Then turned and walked back into the gallery, took the lift back up to the top floor.

When the doors opened, she saw that Max had not moved and she didn’t know whether she was irritated by his certainty that she’d come back, or warmed by the fact that he’d waited for her. There were no clear cut lines with him.

‘I thought it was best to stay put,’ he said, as she held the door and he stopped pretending, joined her in the lift, ‘or we might have been chasing one another around the houses for the next ten minutes.’

‘Only if I came back,’ she pointed out, trying not to smile, but without much success.

‘True.’ He seemed to be finding it easy enough to keep a straight face. Then, ‘You’re very like her.’

‘Yes. It’s strange. All my life people have been telling me I’m like my…Like Ivy Valentine…’

‘She’s still your mother, Lou. She was the one who raised you. And you are like her. Okay, some of it’s superficial, chance. Your colouring, height. But it’s not just that. You hold your head the way she does, you use the same gestures. You have her class.’

‘You don’t think Patsy has class?’

‘Patsy?’

‘It’s a bit late in the day to start calling her Mum, don’t you think?’ She shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. ‘She asked me to call her that.’

‘It suits her,’ he said, taking her arm as they headed for the door.

She stiffened momentarily, then forced herself to relax. If she pulled away, he’d think that what he said, did, mattered to her.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked, once they were outside, but keeping her voice light.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘She’s classy.’

‘Not quite the same thing.’

‘What can I say? She’s a real head-turner, Lou.’ Then, with a wry grin, ‘Don’t let her near my father. He has a fatal weakness for that chorus-girl-fallen-on-good-times look.’

‘Your father has a fatal weakness for women full-stop.’

‘Life has never been dull,’ he agreed, and it was Louise who found herself reaching out to him, tucking her arm through his as they walked away from the square. ‘I don’t think you understand how lucky you’ve been. How much I envied you the sheer ordinariness of your family.’

‘Ordinariness?’

‘It’s what boys yearn for. Parents who don’t attract attention.’

‘Oh, dear. Bad luck,’ she said, laughing. ‘How is Aunt Georgina? Where is she?’

‘In Mexico, painting up a storm. Apparently the light is magical. She’s living with someone called Jose who’s half her age.’ He looked at her. ‘Ring Ivy, Louise. Don’t abandon something precious to chase rainbows.’

She shook her head. Unwilling to admit that he was right. But Max had been no more than a toddler when his parents had split up. Since then there had been a succession of stepmothers, half-siblings, step-siblings from his father. Drama and lovers from his mother. No one, she thought, had ever put Max first. It was scarcely any wonder that he had given all his heart, his loyalty to the business. Bella Lucia had never hurt him.

She looked up, but not far; in her high heels her eyes were nearly on a level with his.

‘I will call her,’ she promised.

‘When?’

‘Soon.’ Then, because all that hurt too much to think about, ‘Chorus girl fallen on good times?’

‘The glamour, the clothes, the diamonds in those rings…’

‘So what you’re saying is that she’s a classy “broad” rather than a product of the finishing school, debutante system? Now I’m afraid to ask what I owe to nature as opposed to nurture.’

It was the height of the rush-hour and Max, sensing approaching quicksand, used the excuse of looking around for a cruising cab to avoid her direct gaze.

‘Well?’ she demanded.

‘I thought you didn’t want to know.’

‘Oh, please…’

‘It’s not something I could put into words,’ he said.

How could you possibly quantify the smoke and mirrors of sex appeal? Pin it down, list the components. Item: hair, the colour of ripe wheat rippling in the wind. Item: two eyes, blue-grey, unless she was angry, when they were like storm clouds threaded with lightning. Item: one mouth…

He found himself staring at her mouth. Parted slightly, as if she were on the point of saying something outrageous. On the point of laughing. Dark, rich, enticing. The colour of the small sweet plums he picked in his Italian grandmother’s family home on rare and treasured holidays, when he’d been taken along to keep his half-brother Jack from getting into mischief. To give his father time to spend with wife number three…

‘Do you think there’s any chance we’ll find a taxi at this time of day?’ he asked, abruptly.

She lifted a hand and, as if by magic, a black cab materialised alongside them.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked as he opened the door.

We? That was promising.

‘Mayfair. My office,’ he said, taking advantage of the opportunity she’d given him. ‘I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.’

‘Oh, this should be good,’ she said, climbing in without argument.

Something of a first, that, but he was too busy enjoying the view to comment on it. Item: one pair of finely boned ankles that drew the eye upwards in an appreciation of her long legs…

Pulling himself together, he told the driver to take them to Berkeley Square, the home of the Mayfair Bella Lucia and the company offices, and then climbed in beside her.

She was glowing, he thought. Happy. A transformation from her arrival at the gallery. She hadn’t seen him, but he’d arrived before her, seen how tense she’d looked. The meeting with her mother had gone well. Maybe that was a good thing. Patsy lived in London…

‘What do you think it will take?’ she asked, breaking into his thoughts.

‘Sorry?’

‘I’m interested in what you believe you’ll have to offer, before I can’t refuse?’

‘If I told you that, you’d know more than I do.’

‘No, Max. I already know what it’ll take. You’re the one who has to find the perfect combination.’ She was smiling, but her face offered no clues. ‘I hope you’ve got nothing else planned for the rest of the evening.’

He tried to forget the mountain of paperwork on his desk as he said, ‘I cleared my diary. I’ve got as long as it takes.’

To say that her expression changed would have been an exaggeration, but for a split second he thought he’d found the key. Then, she glanced out of the window, as if the passing traffic was of more interest than anything he had to offer. Then, ‘Try, Max.’

‘Try?’ he repeated, confused. She wanted him to open negotiations here, in the back of a taxi?

‘To put it into words. What I owe to Patsy.’ She turned to face him. ‘What I owe to nature.’

He had the uncomfortable feeling that she was playing with him. That she knew exactly what she wanted and that when she was ready she would tell him; in the meantime she was enjoying making him sweat a little.

‘Sorry, Lou,’ he said. ‘I have an aversion to having my face slapped.’

‘I would never slap your face, Max.’ Her lashes swept down as she did her best to hide a satisfied little smile, demonstrating beyond any doubt that sex appeal was so much more than the sum of its parts. Describing it was like trying to catch mist. Or trying to explain a smile when the difference between the mechanics—some magic movement of muscles that lifted the mouth and went all the way up to the eyes—and the combined effect were so utterly indescribable…